


Honey Sweet & Dusty Keys

by marchionessofblackadder



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:31:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchionessofblackadder/pseuds/marchionessofblackadder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Gold met with her at the library every day at one thirty-two in the afternoon until someone stopped him on the sidewalk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey Sweet & Dusty Keys

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue to Karner Blue.

Mr. Gold had determined quite early on that having one’s mind replaced with fake memories was problematic. He often wondered if he would’ve been better off left ignorant to what was going on around him, but ever since hearing Emma Swan’s name, he felt like he’d woken up from a sleeping curse. His body was lethargic, his mind sluggish, and his own person had forgotten who he was. It was like slipping on a very old coat, having to remember the quirks about wearing it, tugging on the sleeves, fixing the collar, adjusting the seams of the arms. It had taken him a few weeks to brace against the onslaught of memories and reconcile with who he was and who he had always been.  
  
As the Dark One, he’d done it once, so he knew he could do it again.  
  
Being in his den helped sort through the memories, his antiques shop supplying him with forgotten deals and a painful past that he didn’t want to embrace but didn’t have the time to ignore. Time was turning again, and he couldn’t afford to push down bitterness and regret. So if he stumbled upon one of Bae’s toys or found his old walking stick, he simply arranged them more carefully in the shop, giving them places of honor in his direct line of vision from the counter to serve as reminders of what he was working towards. It helped, oddly enough, and it had been a long time since he’d considered himself sentimental.  
  
Finding the teacup had been different.   
  
It had not been in the shop, not stuffed in some newspaper to keep it from cracking in an old drawer. No, it had been arranged in his china cabinet at home, remaining the first and foremost piece at the head of the shelf, the chip of the golden rim more prominent than a white flag of surrender. The first time he saw it-and  remembered  what it was-it had knocked the breath out of him. His cane had clattered to the floor in his haste to reach the cabinet, tugging the doors open and cradling it in his old, worn hands. The weight was a strange comfort, the crack of porcelain against the pad of his finger jogging a new flood of memories. Chestnut hair burning auburn in sunlight, eyes as blue as sky and sea, and a dimpled smile that was more playful than sympathetic. Dusty keys to his own desperate soul, he thought.  
  
After finding it, he’d endured a sleepless night of forcing himself to hear those voices, the Dark One’s hiss of suspicion in the back of his mind, an Evil Queen’s poisoned candy apple smile, his own snarling, shaking bellow, and a honey sweet voice that was softened with hurt, begging to understand even after centuries, “ Why won’t you believe me? ”  
  
Mr. Gold had thought his heart had been broken one too many times as Rumpelstiltskin. He’d found, after that night, the fragile glue a fake life had used to put the pieces together for a quick fix cracked under the strain of those voices, those memories. He’d tossed and turned in his empty four poster bed, sweat soaked and gasping as he let himself be swallowed and pulled under the current. After all, he had work to do, and such things as insistent as lost boys and dead loves had to be addressed so as not to distract him.  
  
But then he’d found her and that had changed. Well, there had been no “finding” to it, strictly speaking. He’d taken a cup of coffee, strong and black with a newspaper for company in one of the booths of Granny’s Diner (a place he didn’t relish frequenting, having to be around other people, but so early in the morning left him the lonely patron and the first cup to the pot) one early overcast morning, waiting for the rain to pass and hopefully wash away the ice that the weather man on the radio droned on about. Really, they lived in Maine. If someone didn’t know by now to watch out for ice, it was their own damn fault to fall victim to it.  
  
He’d just been reading _ The Daily Mirror_, more for amusement than information. Not much in that quaint little town happened, at least not before Emma Swan showed up with her own son in tow. He’d been engrossed in an internal critique of Sydney Glass’ poorly executed column on the upcoming Coal Miner’s Festival when the bell over the diner’s door rang, and glancing up hadn’t earned him more than a glimpse of a dove grey coat and finely shaped legs as the young girl walked up to the counter. Ruby Hooden asked her order, and up until that point it had been simply another early morning customer. It was her voice that stopped his breathing, though, and the words that followed from a thousand years before, “A cup of tea please, with a spoon of honey.”  
  
In the Dark Castle, he’d asked her that once, how she took her tea, more out of curiosity. He’d never made her a cup himself, even that one time she’d caught a chill. He had remembered the honey when he’d taken a tray to her in the dungeon, though, but he’d never spared the time to make a cup for her himself, not until after Regina informed him of her fall. For a few weeks he had taken up the habit, and he’d let the cup sit untouched and cold at the table while at his spinning wheel, glancing over his shoulder every hour or so, wishing she’d push the doors open with her little brisk pace, just having lost track of time in the library again.  
  
Sometimes he saw her, and sometimes she even thanked him for the tea.  
  
After that, he’d locked the tea set up and kept a flask of firewhiskey in his coat pocket. The Dark One couldn’t get drunk, apparently, not as easy as his human form had, and drinking didn’t help, not truly, but it was another distraction for his mind and his heart and his hands. The silver had been melted down from the tea tray, a practical use, he’d thought at the time.   
  
Nevermind her fingerprints had still been on the handles.  
  
So lost in thought had he been, he’d not heard her approach to his table. It wasn’t often that someone could sneak up on Mr. Gold, but her voice startled him so terribly he’d jumped at her soft words, “Might I join you?”  
  
Looking up at her, blameless and warm even on that wet, cold morning hurt more than he was prepared for. Her chestnut hair, curled and falling about her shoulders as she cradled her tea cup in her hands, was darker without sunlight kissing it. But her smile was just as light as he remembered. His mouth was too dry to form any words, not that he had the breath for them, so he simply nodded, watching her as she slid into the booth opposite of him with an easy smile. He half expected her to hop upon the table and cross her ankles.  
  
“I’m sorry, but do I know you?” his little Belle from a thousand years ago asked, and she must have seen the panic that restarted his heart at her use of his pseudonym because her smile slipped away. “Are you alright? I’m sorry- I can leave-”  
  
“No!” His hand almost overturned his coffee cup in his rush to grab her wrist, to hold onto her tangible form. His words were flustered and the back of his neck burned as he scrambled to explain, “I’m- I’m sorry, I just... you look incredible. I mean- incredibly close to someone I knew.”  
  
Her eyes, those blue, blue eyes had widened at his voice, and her tense muscles under his touch slowly relaxed and her eyes fluttered and her smile returned. “Oh, I see,” she narrowed her eyes for a split second then. “Are you sure that’s all?”  
  
“Of course,” he murmured, releasing her wrist quickly.  
  
“You’re shaking.”  
  
He looked down, realizing the hand that still held the newspaper was quivering like a dried leaf. He dropped it and hid his hands on his knees beneath the table, feeling more vulnerable than he cared to acknowledge. “You startled me,” he half accused, a mutter under the sheeting rain against the windows behind her.  
  
Belle smiled apologetically, lifting her cup to her lips. “Well, one would think the bell would have told you off.”  
  
Mr. Gold looked up at her, staring in astonishment. “Yes. One would think.”  
  
“You’re Mr. Gold, aren’t you,” her eyes lit at her realization, and he raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you,” she set her teacup down on the saucer and then began to remove her pretty white gloves, revealing a true lady’s hands, hands his deal in another world had turned dry and rough, cracking from dish water and lye. “From my father, mostly.”  
  
“And rumors, I imagine.”  
  
“A few,” she pursed her lips, masking a giggle he almost wish she would set free. “How many of them are true?”  
  
“All of them,” he admitted, a low chuckle escaping into his coffee as he took a drink from his mug. He saw Ruby out of the corner of his eye shoot them a curious look as she wiped the counter down, and he also noticed the look Belle seemed to exchange with her. By any judge of her dancing blue eyes, she was amused with the prospect of being spied upon.   
  
It was unreal, her sitting here before him as if nothing had changed, as if she hadn’t come back from the dead and appeared in the frosty doorway with warmth and kindness, the same tools she’d used to clean his castle and steal his peace. “You won’t find many people receptive to the idea of spending time with me.”  
  
“Why’s that?”  
  
“I’m a difficult man.”  
  
Belle tilted her head, watching him with those wise blue eyes. “I imagine you’re even worse than that.”  
  
Mr. Gold frowned at the implication, but wasn’t about to deny it. “Yes, well, no need to sugar coat it, dear.”  
  
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” she laughed, threading her fingers in her lap. He felt her cross her legs beneath the table, her high heeled shoe brushing the pant leg of his suit. “It’s part of your charm, too.”   
  
“Your father might disagree.”  
  
“It wouldn’t be the first time my father and I disagreed,” she confessed. Already she was so willing to share herself with him. “But I tend to be a disagreement myself.”  
  
Gold snorted and busied his hands with folding his newspaper. “A harmless little thing like you?”  
  
“Words can be quite harmful,” she pointed out, raising her eyebrows at him. “And I’m quite full of them. It’s gotten me into trouble more times than I can be proud of.”  
  
Oh, he knew that all too well.   
  
“We share that in common, then, Miss French,” Mr. Gold said quietly, and the smile that passed between them was shy and hurting, but the meaning was honest and the empathy sincere. But by that point it was too much for him to not ask, he had to know. And he would rather hear the story from Belle herself than anyone else, even if he did have a date with his gloves and the Mayor’s neck later that evening. “I haven’t seen much of you in town. Keep to yourself, do you?”  
  
“Ah, ah,” Belle sat up a bit in the booth, grinning like a cat who’d spied a bird. “I believe you owe me an explanation first.”  
  
The rush of blood roaring in Mr. Gold’s ears was almost too much to bear. Did she know? Did she remember? Did she remember  him ?  
  
“How did you know my father? My name?”   
  
Mr. Gold relaxed, his hands worrying the gold handle of his cane a little less severely. He let his back rest against the cushioned seat. “Your father and I have business.”  
  
“Yes, but how did you know I was his daughter? We’ve never met.”  
  
“Family resemblance,” he shrugged, not breaking their gaze. He was practiced in the art of telling lies. “A better question is how you know me.”  
  
Belle laughed softly with something like affection in her voice, “Everyone knows you, Mr. Gold.”  
  
He shifted uncomfortably under her openness and cutthroat kindness. It made him more unsure of himself in this world than it ever had in the old world. “Yes, but they don’t take it upon themselves to intrude on my morning routine.”  
  
“Come on, you’re happy I’m here,” she sat back too, her smile softening with ease. “I know a lonely soul when I see one.”  
  
“And your job is to what? Fix me?” He didn’t ask for this, and he wasn’t even sure if he wanted it, truth be told. Her being alive and whole and well was one thing- one beautiful crack that he hadn’t imagined possible in this curse. Her pressing in against his workings, his plans, tearing down curtains again and demanding space in his cluttered world, well, that quite another. “Pardon my blunt words, Miss French, but you don’t know me, and I’m quite sure you won’t want to,” Mr. Gold slid up from the booth, grateful for the break in the rain to escape to his shop. He took a few bills from his pocket and tossed them on the table, paying for both his coffee, her tea, and a generous tip for Ruby even though he couldn’t remember feeling that inclined to the flighty waitress before.  
  
Before he could make his exit, her words caught him. “I’ll decide that for myself,” Belle said, still smiling, ever smiling. She watched him stop and he glanced back at her hesitantly. There was no jest, simply intrigue and amusement. “And if you are so disinclined for breakfast, I take lunch at one thirty at the library.”  
  
Mr. Gold narrowed his eyes at her, opening his mouth to forfeit her offer, but she raised her other hand up to him dismissively as she slid his newspaper over to her side of the table. “Good day, Mr. Gold.”  
  
Ruby stood behind the counter, appearing just as dumbfounded as Mr. Gold felt.   
  
What was more, he actually left by her leave.  
  
And it was like she’d tied a string to the button of his shirt after that, because at one thirty-two every day, he found himself in the warm library spending a few minutes shy half an hour speaking in a reverent tones to the pretty librarian behind her counter. It had taken more finesse than he was used to using on people to extract her fake story, but as always concerning Belle, she was special that way.  
  
“Just after I returned from college, I had a bit of an upset,” she admitted, tying a light blue bow around a jar of chocolate kisses she’d acquired to spruce up the lonely counter. “Dr. Hopper had advised therapy. He’d said it was from the stress of school and work, and my father had taken his words to heart. He’d arranged for my stay at the mental health facility-”  
  
Mr. Gold put a black leather gloved hand up, frowning. “I beg your pardon-the what?”   
  
“You know, the- the asylum,” Belle colored under his scrutiny, her cheeks lighting like roses in bloom. “Anyway, I was released a few weeks ago.”  
  
And a few weeks ago, Emma Swan had arrived in town and time had moved once more.   
  
More for Belle’s sake than his own revenge, Mr. Gold didn’t go after Regina, as much as he yearned for it. No, her downfall would be that much sweeter because it was only a matter of time until she sealed her own fate and hung herself. And he didn’t want to mar his time with Belle by murdering the mayor, however fleeting and simple it might be, and ruin her opinion of him. Whatever the bloody hell  that  stood to be.  
  
So he continued to visit her, enjoying her ruffled nose when he was consistently two minutes late every day for their meeting in the library. They talked of everything and nothing, ranging on politics and economics to the weather. Sometimes she spoke of her father and her frustration with his weak spirit and inclination for defeat, other times he hung his cane on the counter and spoke of his grumbling neighbors when he used lanolin in the late evenings that apparently made the air smell like livestock.   
  
Those times leaning into each other over the counter, their voices mingling all over crumbled silver tin wrappings, was their secret. It was a battle sometimes to get her to sit her book down to pay attention to him, but oh, was he happy when she did. The book remained closed, too, until he left again.  
  
Then, she knit him a karner blue scarf and wrapped it around his neck, so close he could smell her perfume. Once upon a time, she’d taken a kiss from him he hadn’t been ready to accept, so in that grey lit library he’d bowed his head and taken his own from hers, shuddering when she wrapped her arms around his neck and he tasted chocolate on her tongue.  
  
Walking against the cold winds now with the scarf, he smelled her perfume on his collar with every breath he took. There was magic at his fingertips again, not much, but what spare amount he had was at his disposal. The man and monster were becoming one. Each day the curse was weakening, and the pain of his leg eased. Rumpelstiltskin was awakening once more.  
  
These signs were subtle, but subtlety was his specialty and he found himself more often than not in a pleasant mood. It wasn’t because of his afternoons with his little Belle, he tried telling himself. That would insinuate tenderness; he hadn’t been seen as such in centuries and had no intention of giving face to that any time soon. Even if he did wear her scarf every day.  
  
It was with these thoughts twirling in his mind when a familiar condescending voice caught him on the sidewalk one grey afternoon on his way to the library, “If it isn’t the old Mr. Gold.”  
  
The pawnbroker came to a slow stop on the slippery sidewalk, a smirk lifting his lips. He knew the voice from the old world, less from this one. He turned carefully to face the man, still obnoxiously tall and well built as ever, a declension from the last time Rumpelstiltskin had seen him as a rose on his very own table. “Mr. Cavalier,” he couldn’t say the name without smirking. Regina had been cliche as ever, obviously not inheriting her mother’s tactfulness. “What can I do for you?”  
  
The once-knight who’d tried and failed at protecting his fiance stuffed his hands in his windbreaker, the stitching on the breast reading ‘Nikka Fishing Marine’. His shoulders were tense and his frown was set so staunchly, Gold wondered if he’d ever spent a smile in this world. “Did Rose make that for you?”  
  
The loanshark rested his hands atop his cane calmly.  My Belle did , he wanted to say, but bit his tongue at the thought. “Miss French is a sweet spirit,” he nodded. “It was a gift.”  
  
Sir Gaston snorted in derision, and that put a bad taste in Gold’s mouth. “What’d you do for that? I can’t get her to hardly look at me.”  
  
Gold’s mouth twitched at the corner of his lips. “I did nothing but pay her a visit at lunch.”  
  
The impudent boy smiled widely, flashing his teeth. “One of  those  visits. I see.”  
  
“You watch your tongue, boy,” Mr. Gold growled, his hands fisting over the handle of his cane. “You will speak to me with respect, else I shall have to teach you how. As for Miss French, I suggest you will keep your filthy opinions to yourself.”  
  
The former flower took a step closer, but Gold was unafraid, even if the man was a head taller than him. “You’re an old man with a limp. You really think you’re up for this?”  
  
“I wasn’t aware we were competing,” Mr. Gold took his pocket watch from his vest, cursing gently when he saw it was a quarter to two. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m running late.”   
  
It was a belated reaction, and he regretted it the moment he decided to turn his back to the younger man. Mr. Gold saw the boy’s arm go to grab him, catching his coat and scarf and tugging him backwards. It was enough to throw off his already tentative balance, and the ice underfoot sealed his fate. On any normal day, his cane would have caught his fall, but this time the wood snapped in half against his weight.   
  
When his head cracked against the pavement, he was vaguely aware of his pocket watch snapping in half. His vision swam and blurred, color seeping to grey every time he tried to open his eyes. From somewhere above, he heard a string of expletives and then the hurried scuffle of a retreat until he was alone, laying pathetically crumpled on the empty street.   
  
Something warm broke out at the back of his head where it lay against the ice, seeping into his hair and staining his collar. His eyes grew heavy and all he wanted was to close them. Minutes or hours later he could hear voices, muted against the cold all around him but for the growing heat at the back of his hair. He couldn’t make out the words, and they were getting more distorted with every moment.   
  
Mr. Gold wanted to tell them to apologize on his behalf for being late. He would make it up somehow, he would make up for everything. He owed her time, all the time in between two worlds, and a story about his son.   
  
_I’m sorry, do I know you?_  
  
In this new world, now that he’d gotten her back, he had wanted to grant her that wish freely, without a deal or a contract. She had wanted to know him, even now, even as a monster and a beast and a more desperate soul than ever.  
 _  
If I’m never going to know another person in my whole life, can’t I at least know you?_ __  
  
But his eyes were heavy, his pocket watch was broken, and he no longer had the time.


End file.
